


The Break-Up

by jaradel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaradel/pseuds/jaradel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Excerpt from John Watson's blog:</p><p>1st May</p><p>Quick Update</p><p>Sorry I haven't posted much recently. We've had a few cases which I'll write up when I get chance. Think I needed a break from it all really. That whole business in the swimming pool... I just needed to get away from guns and bombs and maniacs. Went to see an old mate in New Zealand for a couple of weeks. Sarah came too but we broke up shortly afterwards. Not sure my life with Sherlock is compatible with long-term relationships.</p><p>More news soon."</p><p>This is the story behind the blog entry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Break-Up

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Azriona](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/azriona) for the lovely beta work!

Excerpt from [John Watson's blog](http://johnwatsonblog.co.uk/):

_1st May_

###  _Quick Update_

_Sorry I haven't posted much recently. We've had a few cases which I'll write up when I get chance. Think I needed a break from it all really. That whole business in the swimming pool... I just needed to get away from guns and bombs and maniacs. Went to see an old mate in New Zealand for a couple of weeks. Sarah came too but we broke up shortly afterwards. Not sure my life with Sherlock is compatible with long-term relationships._

_More news soon._

_\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

          John really liked Sarah. After all, any woman willing to go out on a second date after being kidnapped and nearly killed by Chinese gangsters on the first date was worth keeping, right? They had been dating for about three months, and Sarah was incredibly patient when Sherlock would pull John away from dates and nights in at her flat for this or that case. She was slightly less patient with him begging off work for Sherlock, since that usually meant that she was stuck covering his appointments, but John was very good about making it up to her. In fact, that was part of the reason for the two-week trip to New Zealand - that, and really needing to put some distance between himself and the business with Moriarty. Sarah was particularly looking forward to the trip because it meant that she would have John's full attention, without having to worry about Sherlock's interference, and said as much to John in the days leading up to departure.

         John couldn't really blame Sarah for feeling that way. To be honest, he was also looking forward to some time away from his flatmate who, in the weeks following the pool incident, had been more sullen and withdrawn than usual. When departure day rolled around, though, he didn't feel as happy about it as he thought he should. Of course, this probably had a lot to do with a certain consulting detective sulking on the sofa, curled in a ball with his back to the room, while John tried to give him some last minute reminders.

         "...And remember to post the payments for the water and electric next Monday - not before or the cheques will bounce. And don't forget to clean out your experiment drawer in the fridge," John said to Sherlock's back.

         "Mmm," came the noncommittal reply.

         "And please, be careful if Lestrade calls you out on cases. Try not to take the piss too much with Donovan and Anderson. And don't take any unnecessary risks."

         "I'm not a child, John," Sherlock muttered sullenly.

 _Could have fooled me,_ John thought with a rueful smile, but he decided not to voice that aloud. "Alright then, I'll be back in two weeks. Try not to blow up the flat while I'm gone."

         "Fine, whatever," Sherlock mumbled.

         If John didn't know better, he'd say that his socially stunted flatmate sounded _depressed,_ except Sherlock would actually have to care to be depressed, and John couldn't imagine that Sherlock cared that much about him being gone for two weeks - or did he? John suddenly felt very wrong-footed - should he say something? Pat his shoulder reassuringly? Or just let him alone?

         "Don't you have a taxi waiting downstairs, John?" Sherlock said irritably, still resolutely facing the back of the sofa.

         "Oh - right. Well, um - yeah. Take care, Sherlock," John stammered, picking up his bags and beating a hasty retreat before things got any weirder.

         He didn't notice Sherlock watching him through the newly-repaired window as the taxi pulled away from the curb.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

         That last exchange with Sherlock stuck in the back of John's mind the entire time he and Sarah were in New Zealand. He found himself surreptitiously checking his phone for messages from Sherlock when he thought Sarah wasn't looking, but she called him out on it at the end of the first week. After that, a slight tension had crept into their interactions, and though they both enjoyed the rest of their holiday, John found himself disproportionately happy when their plane finally landed at Heathrow. He and Sarah exchanged pleasant goodbyes at the baggage claim, and John was secretly relieved that Sarah did not ask him back to her flat. Once he was in the taxi, John texted Sherlock.

_Leaving Heathrow. Back at Baker Street in 30._

         John was disappointed when he didn't receive a response right away. Twenty minutes later, his phone chimed with an incoming text.

_Crime scene. Canary Wharf. Come as soon as you can. SH_

         Another text immediately followed with the address of the tower block. John grinned in spite of himself. When the taxi pulled up to 221B, he asked the cabby to wait long enough for him to drop his bags inside the front door, then directed him to the crime scene.

         Lestrade greeted John when he arrived at the tower block. "Thank God you're here, John," the older man said, clapping John on the back. "Sherlock's been in a right state while you've been gone."

         "What do you mean? He barely notices when I'm not around as it is. He has whole conversations with me when I'm not there, apparently," John said, confused.

         "Trust me, mate - he noticed, and he was a miserable bastard while you were gone. Most people can't tell the difference, but I've known him long enough that I can see it," Lestrade replied. They walked over to where Sherlock was scuttling around the corpse like a deranged spider, absorbing all the available data. John stopped a respectful distance away, and Sherlock looked up. For just a fleeting second, John saw Sherlock unguarded, his eyes displaying happiness and relief before the haughty mask settled once again over his features.

         "Ah, John - you're late. What can you tell me about the cause of death?"

         John smiled - Sherlock was the same arrogant berk he always was. _But he's my arrogant berk._ As nice as it had been to get away with Sarah, visit an old friend, and see a place as far away and beautiful as New Zealand, he was inordinately happy to be back in London, following Sherlock to crime scenes. There was no place he'd rather be.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

         John never asked Sherlock about the look, nor inquired about how he stayed busy while John was gone. He was not terribly surprised to find that most of the body parts in the experiment drawer had gone off ( _ugh_ ), but was pleased that the utility payments had been posted, even if he knew that Sherlock had gotten Mrs Hudson to do it for him.

         Two days after his return, John got a call from Sarah. He was sitting in his usual chair; Sherlock was on the sofa doing his best impersonation of a corpse.

         "Hello?"

         "Hi John, it's Sarah."

         "Hi Sarah, what's up?" A snort, barely audible, came from the vicinity of the sofa. John ignored it.

         "I wanted to know if you'd like to have dinner tonight, say around six? We can meet at the curry place at the other end of Baker Street."

         "Sure, curry sounds great. See you at six." Another snort and a dramatic flop into sulk pose from the sofa's long-limbed occupant.

         "Great, see you then. Bye, John."

         "Bye." John ended the call and regarded his flatmate's back. "What's wrong?" he asked, going for the direct approach.

         "Nothing. You should go get ready if your date's at six," came the muffled reply from the sofa.

         "Right, okay," John said slowly, and got up to do just that. When he came back downstairs, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John checked the kitchen and, finding it empty, continued down the back hallway to Sherlock's room. The door was closed, which typically only happened when Sherlock was sleeping, but it was far too early in the day for that. John knocked lightly. "Sherlock?"

         "Enjoy your date, John," came the slightly acidic reply.

         John sighed, and went downstairs.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

         John thought dinner was going rather well, all things considered. He and Sarah made small talk, and he recounted a story about a particularly recalcitrant patient he’d treated the day before who apparently had memorized WebMD and was convinced that the pain in his lower back must be an early sign of cancer, when in fact it was nothing more than a pulled muscle. Sarah laughed; John could certainly spin a yarn when the mood struck him. During a lull in the conversation he pulled his phone out to check it before slipping it back in his pocket.

         “Text from Sherlock?” Sarah asked, a note of resignation in her voice.

         “No, just checking,” John said absently, taking a bite of his butter chicken.

         “Of course,” she said with a sigh.

         John looked up at her, but Sarah was looking away. He knew he didn’t have Sherlock’s powers of perception, but he sensed that there was something amiss. Clearing his throat, he said, “Any plans for the weekend?”

         “Oh, I don’t know, hadn't thought that far ahead yet. You?”

         “Can’t say, I guess it depends on whether or not Sherlock has a case,” he replied noncommittally, checking his phone again. When he pocketed it and looked up, Sarah still wasn't looking at him, but her mouth was set in a firm line. They finished their meals in an uncomfortable silence. When the server came around to collect their plates, John placed a takeaway order of chicken jalfrezi for Sherlock with extra naan.

         “Ordering dinner for Sherlock?” Sarah asked.

         “Yeah, I don’t think he’s eaten all day and chicken jalfrezi is one of his favourites. He might actually eat it since he didn’t have to go to any effort to pick it up.”

         “He’s not a child, John; he can take care of himself.”

         “Sometimes I wonder about that,” John replied ruefully.

         “Well it’s not your responsibility to make sure he eats, you know. And I suppose since you’re getting takeaway for him, that you’re going home after this?” Sarah said, her tone clipped.

         “Oh – well, hadn't thought about that... did you have something else in mind for this evening?” John asked, feeling as if he’d just walked into a trap that he didn’t know was there.

         “No, I guess not,” Sarah said, defeated.

         John was at a loss. Sherlock was his friend and flatmate; why did the takeaway order seem to matter to her so much? Sherlock probably _hadn’t_ eaten all day, and this was an easy solution to the problem of getting Sherlock to eat on something approaching a regular schedule. He didn't see why Sarah seemed to take it as a personal affront.

         “I’ve been thinking,” Sarah finally said, toying with her napkin and pointedly avoiding John’s gaze.

         "About what?"

         "About us."

         "Oh." _Here it comes..._

         "I think you're a great guy, John..."

         "But?"

         "I just feel like this relationship isn't going anywhere. I never feel like you're completely with me when we're together. Even when we were halfway around the world, I still felt like I was competing with Sherlock for your attention."

 _Damn._ John mentally flicked through his options for response, before settling on feigned ignorance. "I don't know what you mean," he said evenly, taking a sip of wine.

         “Alright, take tonight for example. You checked your phone at least twice for messages from him, and then you ordered him a takeaway. I felt like a third wheel, and there are only two of us at this table.”

         “He’s my flatmate – my friend. That’s all.”

         Sarah regarded John with sad, resigned eyes. "I know that, John," she said carefully, "but even when he's not asking you to break a date to join him on a case, he's texting you about something. And when he's not calling or texting, you're wishing that he would. I can see it on your face." She left the rest unsaid, but it hung between them: _you'd rather be with him than me._

         John dropped his eyes to his own napkin, folding it in half to give his hands something to do. "So you're breaking up with me," he said slowly.

         Sarah nodded, the expression on her face a mixture of sadness and relief. "I'm not angry, John. I think you’re an excellent doctor, when you are able to come to work, and I do want to stay friends. But I need to find someone who puts me first, and that place in your life is already occupied by Sherlock."

         John gritted his teeth in frustration. "I'm not gay, you know," he bit off.

         Sarah chuckled. "Yes, of that I am well aware. Doesn't mean that you --"

         "Doesn't mean that I what?" John interjected, trying desperately to keep his temper in check.

         "All I'm saying is that it's obvious that you care for him a great deal, beyond that of flatmate and friend. I'm not even sure there's a word to describe what your relationship is with him. But it _is_ a relationship." Sarah stood up then and put money for her half of the bill on the table. She gave John a chaste kiss on the cheek. "See you at work, John." And with that she was gone.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

         John walked home with Sherlock’s takeaway in a plastic bag. His own meal sat uncomfortably in his stomach as he went over the dinner conversation in his mind. He couldn't deny that Sarah was right - he always put Sherlock first, and even he knew that wasn't exactly normal behaviour for flatmates.  That being said, nothing concerning Sherlock could ever be considered “normal”. The overgrown genius-child could be downright rude a fair bit of the time, and rarely seemed to take John's feelings into consideration, so why did he feel the need to take care of him? Why did he care at all?

 _Because he saved me,_ John thought, stopping in the middle of the pavement as the thought hit him. _Because if it weren't for that inconsiderate tosser, I'd probably have eaten a bullet by now._

         Shaking his head, John continued walking back to the flat. He couldn't deny that he and Sherlock had gone well past the boundaries of typical flatmates and become close friends. And Sherlock seemed to need - maybe even _want_ \- someone to look after him, even though he'd never admit it. That didn't mean their relationship was anything even approaching romantic, though. If John was blunt honest, he'd say that he and Sherlock were probably co-dependent to an unhealthy degree, but why mess with what worked?

         John let himself into the building and walked slowly up the seventeen steps to their flat. Opening the door, he found Sherlock back on the sofa. He had changed out of his usual suit and dress shirt, and was now wearing his well-worn T-shirt, pyjama bottoms and dressing gown. He was stretched out on his back, hands pressed together prayer-like under his chin, his eyes closed. John wasn't fooled, though - Sherlock was wide awake.

         "Sorry," Sherlock said as John closed the door and headed into the kitchen.

         "For what?"

         "Sarah."

         John skipped right past _"What about her"_ and _"How did you know"_ and said, "Well, it was heading that way. Probably even before our holiday, if I'm honest."

         "But it still surprised you," Sherlock said flatly, sitting up on the sofa and resting his elbows on his knees, hands still steepled under his chin.

         "At first. Then it didn't." He wasn't about to tell Sherlock _why_ they broke up. Sherlock could deduce that for himself. Probably already had done.

         "She thinks that I demand too much of your time," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

         "Right in one," John said, setting the takeaway bag on the counter and retrieving a plate from the cupboard. He spared a glance over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was deep in pre-deduction thought, wholly occupied with The Case of the Dumped Flatmate.

         "But you're not particularly upset by this," Sherlock continued after a minute or two. "You like her, and would have stayed with her, but you didn't argue or try to persuade her to reconsider. You accepted what she said, and let her go." There was a note of wonder and confusion to his voice.

         John plated up the chicken jalfrezi, plopped the naan on top, grabbed a fork, and took the plate to Sherlock. "Right again. Now eat."

         Sherlock accepted the plate without protest, setting it on the coffee table in front of him. He tore off a piece of the naan, dipped it in the jalfrezi sauce, and popped it in his mouth. "What changed?" he asked John as he munched on the naan.

         John sat down next to Sherlock, their knees just barely touching. "What do you mean?"

         "This is the way it's been since you started dating her. I always take up too much of your time."

         "Well, at least you admit that," John drawled, tearing off a piece of naan for himself and chewing on it thoughtfully.

         "Ha. My point is that something had to have changed - recently - for her to no longer accept the status quo."

         "I don't know, Sherlock. The only thing I can think of is that she scolded me about halfway through our holiday for constantly checking my phone for messages."

         Sherlock chewed a bite of chicken and swallowed. "Why were you checking your phone for messages?" he asked, in a tone of voice that suggested he already knew the answer.

         "Force of habit? Conditioned response, I guess? Because I'm not used to going for more than a few hours without getting a text from you?" John said, a note of unintended bitterness creeping into his voice. He looked over at Sherlock, who had a bite of chicken on his fork, halfway to his mouth. But instead of eating it, he set it down on the plate and steepled his hands together again, lost in thought. John left him to it and went to the kitchen for a beer. When he came back to the sofa, Sherlock dropped his hands to his lap, but did not look at John.

         "The day you left, you weren't happy. Something had you worried." Sherlock paused. " _I_ had you worried."

         John knew he couldn't lie. "Yeah, a bit," he said, taking a much-needed swig of his beer. "You were sulking."

         Sherlock gave John the side-eye. "I do _not_ sulk," he said peevishly, taking another bite of chicken and chasing it with a piece of naan.

         "Yeah you do," John said with a weary grin.

         "I was merely _thinking_."

         "You call it that, if it makes you feel better," John said, unable to resist the opportunity to tease his friend.

         Sherlock huffed. "I was - displeased - at the prospect of two weeks alone. It was _boring_."

         "Oh, so I'm just a convenient cure for your boredom?" John shot back, but his tone was amused, not angry.

         "Don't be thick, John. We've been flat-sharing for several months; it’s only natural for me to have grown accustomed to your presence," Sherlock scolded.

         John grinned, reading between the lines and hearing what Sherlock was pointedly _not_ saying. "I missed you too. I couldn't help but think of how much you would have enjoyed deducing everyone and everything, and all the new data you could have collected for your mental hard drive," he said, nudging Sherlock's arm with his elbow.

         Sherlock turned to look at John, almost shyly. "Would you want to go back? To New Zealand?" he asked, and John could swear he caught an undertone of insecurity in the question.

         "God yes, it was beautiful. So green and untouched, not like here. I'd jump at a chance to go back. For a visit, though. Not to live there."

         Sherlock looked down at his plate again. "Good. That's - good. That - that would be good," he said with the same tongue-tied stammer that had afflicted him at the pool. John saw the faintest hint of a blush on his cheeks, even as a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Sherlock took one last bite of his chicken, then took his plate - unasked - to the kitchen. John shifted to the end of the sofa, and when Sherlock came back he flopped down and put his head in John's lap.

         "Oi, I'm sitting here, you know," John said with mock annoyance.

         "Yes," Sherlock drawled, the _obviously_ unspoken but understood.

         "Fine then," John said, setting his now-empty bottle down next to the sofa. Sherlock handed John the television remote and shifted onto his side, his back against the back of the sofa and his feet pulled up slightly, toes tucked into the far corner formed by the arm at the other end and the back cushion. John turned on the telly and found an episode of Top Gear that Sherlock would happily criticize, and set the remote on the arm of the sofa. Without even thinking about it, his right hand ended up absently stroking Sherlock's arm, and his left found its way into Sherlock's hair, gently carding through his soft curls. Sherlock pushed into the contact ever so slightly, and John could swear that he heard him purring.

         John smiled to himself, and felt the hurt of Sarah's breakup melting away as Sherlock let out a soft, contented sigh. He didn't care if this - _whatever_ this is that he and Sherlock were doing - crossed some boundary of friendship, or looked strange to other people. All he knew, in that moment, is that Sherlock did actually care about him, and for now that was enough.

 _This is where I belong,_ he thought. _This is home._

**Author's Note:**

> A lovely reader named Louisa [translated this story into Chinese](http://mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=94128&extra=page%3D1%26filter%3Dtypeid%26typeid%3D29%26typeid%3D29) and posted it on a slash forum. It does require registration, but if you'd rather read it in Chinese, please go check it out!


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